The Footman
by HugAZombie
Summary: First in either three or four books. Pre-slash. Unbeta'd. Modern-day Magical AU. "Its a game of Chess between God and Man; Checkmate is death."
1. Prologue: 1

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own Merlin, dammit. *Sobs*. It belongs to BBC._

_**Notes: **__New story. I am starting to write this because 'part one' is finished (there are about five parts to this story: The beginning,' 'the middle 1,' 'the middle 2,' 'the end 1' and the 'end 2.' The first part has 23 chapters alone so.. so this is going to be a long, long story. :] I really hope I pull it off. This is going to be a slow irregular update._

_This may seem a bit confusing, but I hope it isn't too much. All will become clearer as the story goes on. if it is too confusing, tell me and I'll rewrite it. _

_**Genre:**__ Fantasy/Adventure/Romance_

_**Warnings: **__Pre-Slash, Minor character deaths, violence, dark-ish, spoilers (in an obscure way), slow-burn romance __(very slow burn, sorry about that folks)__, possible implied torture. _

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><p><strong>Prologue 1: The Oath<strong>

He had been but a child when the oath was made. Samhain had all but died that night and the embers of his private celebratory fire cooled on the shore. How the fire had once burned amber into the sky, thick smoke curling and reaching towards the Gods with the grasping fingers of a greedy child. He had watched with wide fascinated eyes, wondering if his wishes, his dreams and thoughts – his essence that had poured from him into the flames – had flown to the stars as well. He wondered if the gods above had heard his prayers, if soon they would be acted upon.

He would give anything to twist his fate from the path he had been designated – the failure son borne of the womb that should never have been seeded. He is yet another pawn in his pseudo-Fathers game, he knew that much, but even pawns had their hierarchy.

And he was most definitely not at the top.

He sighed – a whoosh of breath far too weighted for one so young and leant back on his hands, head hung back and limpid blue eyes fixed above. Strange child. Freak child. Mistake. Even among his 'siblings,' he was an oddity. They gazed at him with pitying, sorrowful eyes before they turned away and gathered around their own secrets, presided over by their Father-by-proxy. The man would sneer at him; mouth contorted in ugly sets, eyes black and narrowed – like a beetle, viscous with a darkness he didn't share.

Above him, the moon watched silently from its cocoon of stars – a voiceless companion that could never whisper his secrets to the wrong ears. The breeze from the sea was heavy with salt and he closed his eyes, just smelling, feeling and listening.

Somewhere far off a cricket had chirped and a few bats ducked and dove over head. The grass waved gently against him, tickling his hands and bare feet. The water lapped at the sandy bed, caressing it like a forever faithful lover; the long, sliding strokes of chilled water reflected the silver and black of the night. It's faint, rhythmic lullaby was enough to create a haze of drowsiness in him, his body and face relaxing in the lull of sleepiness.

She came to him then, a shining beckon of gold and fire and goodness. She was a beauty – untouchable and innocent. She wore a simple dress of white, cinched at the waist by a simple golden belt. Her warmth breezed through him like sunshine and his eyes eased open and his gazed remained fixed. Where his Fathers' eyes were black with hatred and darkness, Hers shone the blazing amber of magic and kindness. Her smile was soft and understated, yet beautiful.

She reached out a hand and called his name, a musical note on the wind that had made him blink and smile widely. His answer was immediate.

She called to him with all the fondness he imagined a mother to have, all the warmth of a grandmother and the sweetness of a childhood friend. She crouched beside him, enveloped him in Her arms and he was cushioned, shielded against the darkness promised to him by a man who called himself his Father.

"You are different, my child," She uttered smoothly and he remembers nodding, drowsy with warmth and love and kindness he had only before witnessed through glass and water. "So different, my child, from the others and for that, I am thankful." She had sounded too pleased, so proud of him for turning against the grain.

"You wish to be free, young one?"

He had gazed at Her that night with hopeful eyes and nodded empathically. "More than anything," he breathed.

He was rewarded with a smile. "I can give you that, child – I can free you from the darkness and replace it instead with light. All I need is an oath from you, a promise that instead of serving who you serve now you will instead serve me and my goals for peace in what is to come."

He grinned brightly. "I'll do anything." Sometimes, he would curse his naivety that evening, but never with true conviction. She had saved him and for that he will be forever grateful.

"Disown your blood, my child, with a prick of the finger and except me with the healing."

She produced a small needle from nothing and passed it to him. He recalls the faint pain at pricking his own finger, and now still finds himself rubbing at the small raised scar. The oath is one he will never speak again, but will remember forever, the words burned into his memory.

All he really remembers after that is swirling, cocooning warmth surrounding him, settling in him. It eased into his bones with a quite purring buzz, relaxing his bones and lightening his heart. The darkness in him, that black fluttering thing that had always frightened him, was banished by this warmth. It smouldered underneath it, vanquished by magic he still doesn't truly understand.

Then there were words, soft, whispering words that were comforting even if the exhaustion crowding him didn't allow him understanding.

And when he awoke the next morning, Merlin Emrys was free.

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><p><em>So what do you think? It is only the first part of the prologue. I hope you enjoyed it xD The next part of 'First times' will be out soon :) <em>


	2. Prologue: 2

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own Merlin, dammit. *Sobs*. It belongs to BBC._

_**Notes: **__New chapter. YAY. Then on to writing my assignment – oh the joy. :) hope you enjoy. _

_**Genre:**__ Fantasy/Adventure/Romance_

_**Warnings: **__Pre-Slash, Minor character deaths, violence, dark-ish, spoilers (in an obscure way), slow-burn romance __(very slow burn, sorry about that folks)__, possible implied torture. _

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><p><strong>Prologue 2: The Island<strong>

It had been years since he last ventured here and little has changed. The water surrounding the small island is still cool and calm, quietly watchful as if the water itself is a sentient creature. He glances back over it, down the caressing waves and the moss and leaves that float quaintly along the river that runs through a rupture in the land. The trees are more wild now, branches thick and heavy with fruit and blossom and foliage, it is beautiful in a way it had never been in his youth.

The sky overhead is clear and the sun bears down on the castle that rests there, a giant monolith of memories and ancient pain and confusion. He hadn't wanted to come back here, but it was necessary. He paces the grass, long to his knees, eyes narrowed against the light.

It's queer to come home after such a long period away, he thinks, especially when there is none left to welcome you, or shun you. What was once emotionally imposing is now only physically so and that is something he can handle. The ghosts of his past whisper by him, gentle in their teasing as scenes from his minds' eye are superimposed on the tranquillity of the island.

He watches himself, a scrawny boy, as his sisters push him around and jeer: all were older, all more powerful, more brilliant, more loved. He tears his eyes away. He is not here to witness memories that could creep up at him at any time, whether here or elsewhere.

He marches ahead purposefully. The castle looms over him as it had done as a child, but it was less of a majestic king and more a broken warrior, battling against time and age. The heavy oak doors are not latched or locked, but even if they were, it would not have deterred him.

He is left to wonder why they would leave their secrets so easily obtainable, and then scolds himself. His 'family' would protect their own with more than metal locks, and he would do well to remember it. His once familiar aura may not protect him here as it did when he was young.

He pushes open the heavy door with a small huff. The groan of the hinges ricochets off the empty walls and rolls down the corridors like approaching thunder. The dust is thick in the air, almost choking and the grime is black with age. The walls of the great antechamber within are cracked and chipped, and the beginnings of ivy – once warded away by the magical activity – pry open the lesions greedily, always searching for more. A heavy scent of musk lingers in the air, the kind that rests heavily upon the shoulders and weighs one down with desolate abandonment. Rats scuttle along the floor, spider journey their webs across corners and walls. A wind sweeps briskly through the walls, finding its way through holes and broken windows and the door still inched open behind him. He gazes around the room, staring up at the walls that had once been decorated lavishly with painting and tapestries and scrolls beyond his understanding. Expensive drapes had lined in gold had hung artistically from here and there and rich knickknack and statues lined the shelves and dippets and corners.

But only empty alcoves and torn strips of fabric are left of those remembered riches and he finds himself quite dispassionate and indifferent. Truly, this place had ceased to be home after his 'fathers' words cut too deeply into bone and poisoned him. He walks forward assuredly, his steps echoing in the silence, a few wary creatures darting to safety in the wake of this unfamiliar presence.

The story was the same throughout the serpentine passageways. The luxuries were stripped or stolen, perhaps by looters who came across the island by chance, or by his 'family' in their rapid departure. Stones and bits of mortar crack and snap under his boots as he approaches the one room he expected to be the only protected one.

He stares up at the large door. It reaches just an inch or so from the ceiling and an intricate web of wards and runes sprawl across the mahogany service, dulled and black with misuse and possibly drained power but not less dangerous as when they were first cast. A practised eyes survey them, studies the runes. His nose is so close it risks brushing against the paint, his hand hovering over the handle thoughtfully, carefully.

It wouldn't surprise him to think they had warded the door against him in spite and fury. He would've done the same.

But he could detect no change in paint, no spot where the design paint seemed newer and less cracked, darker and brighter as it still would be. It took centuries for the wards to fade and he had been away a mere decade. Running a tongue nervously over the front of his teeth, he gingerly presses his palm to the handle and twists, eyes closed and body tensed in anticipation of pain.

None came.

He relaxes a bit as he shoves open the heavy door. Electric blue eyes skim the gloom of the only well-kept room in the entire castle, lingering on the threshold like a child outside a parent's room. He rubs his jaw, a little rough from the journey, and through.

Again, he is met only with silence and stillness.

He relaxes fully and continues further in. Unlike the rest of the castle, the library is exactly how he remembers it. Thousands upon thousands of book line the high walls and are stacked upon the wooden shelves that create a labyrinthine shrine to eons of knowledge. It was a maze, a beautiful, decorated creation. Torches line the walls; flickering shadows on the walls when lit. Chairs and desks are littered in the rare open spaces ready for study. The books themselves range from cracked leather bound tomes to sheaths of clumsily tied parchments. Scrolls are piled in corners, boxes of information stacked in precarious towers. Ladders and staircases allow one to uncover the treasure higher than man can reach or even imagine reaching. Rare documents are housed here, the origins of religion and magic and the knowledge base that lead the modern and secret world alike all enclosed in this one space.

He had forgotten how breath taking the place is. He had forgotten the sheer impossible size. It is just as overwhelming as when he had been a child, perhaps even more so, as he now truly understood the extensive knowledge that is stored here. Secrets and legends and histories long since crumbled to less than dust and forgotten by modern minds are chronicled here, languages that are less than a distant memory of those spoken today can be learnt here and civilisations brought back to life through the reading of their ancient customs. The wealth of knowledge to be found here truly is mind-blowing.

Not for the first time in his life Merlin Emrys feels sincerely humbled.

He closes his eyes and just breathes in the preserved smell of dust and leather and power before he opens his eyes and continues forward. He knows where he must go, to the place where he had never been able to explore as a child. The archives near the back where the prophesies and fortunes were held. It had been a rumour amongst the children that only one who was the object of one such prophesy could reach into the scrolls and read the words within. But Merlin thinks that theory doesn't much hold water, and that his 'father' simply did not want children to see there was a power far greater than himself – destiny.

The childish glee and excitement wells in his chest as he approaches the archives, skimming through the corridors and alleyways, surrounded by books on either side. It takes a long time for him to get to the heart of the library. There was an empty circle. In the middle was a stone basin on a stone stand. Within, he knows, is scrying water. As a child, Merlin would spend hours here, wasting away in front of that basin, watching the children outside this bubble of existence and their families with a sharp slice of jade envy. One boy in particular he had always watched, a spoiled boy who could want for nothing.

Something about him kept Merlin watching, although even now, Merlin doesn't know what. He steps up to it, fingers running along the cool, smooth surface of the stone a little reverently. His eyes peer into the depths of the water, hazing and clouding before he snaps himself out of it. He is not here to scry. He moves away from the basin with a little effort, the pull still as strong as before, and instead crouched in front of it, tugging at the ring that spoke of a trap door.

He climbs down the stairs warily, aware of the possibility of the stairs crumbling beneath him. He holds up a hand and light the size of a fist and bright as a flame hovers over his palm. Here the air is heavy with damp and chill. The walls are hollowed out with thin, inch thick stone shelves, upon which crystal balls and scrolls and parchments are stacked and placed in some kind of order. Merlin willed the light to rise a little higher, his eyes skimming the plaques above each section describing the keywords of the section.

He knew what to look for just not where. He pauses every now and then at a promising section, and his lithe fingers work through the scrolls, searching for something intangible, the tang of magic that would call out to him and promise sweet nonsense should he look upon them.

Perhaps part of his 'sisters' rumours were true.

He plucks a few from their places that could be promising. He takes a few hours for him to work through them all and in the end he has only four scrolls cradled in his arms and a crystal ball frozen in time and knowledge. Merlin looks down at them with a small smile, before he directs the ball of light ahead and leaves one more time.

He hopes he doesn't have to return any time soon.


	3. Prologue: 3

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own Merlin, dammit. *Sobs*. It belongs to BBC._

_**Notes: **__Right, this is the last of the prologues. After this we go straight onto the actual story Also, I have a poll on my profile, if you could answer that I would be grateful but you don't have to obviously (it's about a fic idea). Oh and Dragon Lords don't exist in this world btw. And the Dragon is probably OOC and Merlin too, methinks._

_**Genre:**__ Fantasy/Adventure/Romance_

_**Warnings: **__Pre-Slash, Minor character deaths, violence, spoilers (in an obscure way), slow-burn romance __(very slow burn, sorry about that folks)__, possible implied torture_

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><p><strong>Prologue 3: The Dragon<strong>

April was more than living up to its name. The downpour were icy bites against his skin and soaked through his jumper. London really was one of his favourite places after the quiet and isolation of his childhood. During the day, no matter the weather, it was always so full of life. The pavements line a full and vibrant city, the people flowing blood to keep the heart of it thriving and the rest of the country running. He liked the contradictions, the darkness that swept across most of the city and the beauty of the rest. He liked the history that was etched into each building, each corner, each person.

It wasn't hard to lose oneself in the vastness, in the difference, in the cultures and lifestyles.

He was venturing into the more questionable areas of London, having left the stifling underground to continue shuttling the late and the drunken from place to place. He glanced around. It was not the safest of areas, known for its gang activity and shoddy housing. The people here lived on little and made money doing what they must. It was not rare to witness a prostitute saunter towards a car or a dealer edge into an alley with buyers, both the nervous first timers and jittery addicted. Knife crime was high around here, attracted less attention than a gun, he supposed, but he had yet to face any truly dangerous situation.

The path his followed was well trod. The streets were slick and drowning. He wrinkled his nose at the horrible squelching nose of his trainers as he rounded the corner. Ahead of him was what he was looking for. It was not an attractive place, in fact quite the opposite. The timber framed, three storey house was sagging to onside, the wood of the foundations rotted through. The roof curved down, slates missing and shattered on the floor. The brickwork was crumbling and cracked as if the house were splitting. The windows were poorly boarded with slimy wood and the door looked as though it were barely hanging on. Despite appearances, it was probably the safest place in the whole of London.

The man glanced around himself from beneath the hood that shadowed his face from curious eyes. It would not do for his siblings' Things to witness him here as they patrolled the darkness in their stead. A tramp staggered across the road a few feet away but otherwise it was just him and the moon. Tugging his hood self-consciously, staring at his feet as he walked towards his destination. He made an inconspicuous picture in a place such as that. Tall, slim, hooded, hands now firmly fisted in his pockets; hardly an unusual sight in these streets.

He would not be remembered.

The door opened easily, swinging on its hinges and slamming against the wall. Inside was darker than night and stiller than a tomb. He eased himself in, flicking his fingers and illuminating his palm to light his way. There was a thin layering of smoke among the lower levels, a swirling nothingness that laboured the lungs but caused no real damage. He moved swiftly towards the stairs and followed them up. The smoke steadily thickened, seeping into his lungs and tightening them, but still he was no alarmed. It was a precaution that would not work against his kind. He ignored the rotting second floor and instead continued up to the third level of the house. The smoke was at its thickest here, a blanket of dancing grey that would suffocate any other man in an instant. There were claw marks on the wall from where curiosity killed previous cats. He tried not to look at them, or wonder what the lack of bones.

It lead him places he didn't want to go.

"Emrys." Merlin started, the beam of his light almost useless in the dark, but he saw a small silhouette against the smoke. "Follow."

They ended up in a room, perhaps the only smoke-free room in the building. It was basic, a few wobbly wooden chairs and a scorched table. In one of the chairs sat the queer man-child he had encountered every time he had ventured here. The boy was blind, eyes crudely sewn shut with thick black thread that stood out like scars against his gaunt skin. His body was that of a child no older than nine, but his face was lined with wisdom far beyond that.

The Dragons' unwitting puppet, forever trapped within the meek body of a child and yet with the consciousness of an eternal creature. Should the Dragon ever decide to leave the boys' mind, the boy would simply crumple – a puppet with cut strings.

The rage and disgust that bubbled in his chest was not new, but he also recognised that there is nothing he could do. Despite his magic, he was no real challenge to the eon old Dragon.

"State your business, Warlock." The voice was rough with smoke and brimstone. It was as if the child had chewed only on coals and flame and yet it was still recognisable as that of a child's with only an echo of age.

"I need help," he said simply. "I have read all the prophecies, but I need more."

"Of course you do." The tone was mocking and Merlin ignored it. The Dragon helped him for its own motives and nothing else. Its help was expensive and oftentimes only half of a whole. The boy's head tilted in thought. Merlin thought of the Dragon lurking somewhere in this lair, caught between two worlds and reduced to puppets in both.

"Speak your will."

Merlin eyed the boy. Without the gruesome eyes and grime, he would have grown up to an attractive boy. He could catch the start of a strong jaw and noble nose. His hair was a curious copper and long and lank around his shoulders.

Merlin didn't know if the child had been bright or not, but he hated that he would never know. He had asked once but the Dragon had only laughed, grotesquely posing the boy as if he were no more than a doll. He had only felt queasy then and never again asked.

"I need help. She is not forthcoming."

"She is a god."

"You are a dragon."

The child smiled and it was ugly. "That I am. You know my price."

Merlin clenched his jaw. "It will be granted. Vows can't be broken."

"That they can't."

Irritation fed his veins. "Will you help me or not?"

Another smile. "Of course, all you had to do was ask, Warlock." A smoky chuckle bubbled from cracked and infected lips. "Find the boy with the name of a dragon and soul of a lion."

There was a pause.

"Is that it?"

"That is all I can give you, yes, greedy Warlock."

Merlin rubbed his bristling jaw. "That does not help me."

Those narrow shoulders shrugged. It was a surprisingly human gesture. "That is not my problem, Warlock. That is all I can give you, it is your quest after all, not mine." His smirk spoke differently.

"Damn you, Dragon! I need more; I can't find him based on that."

The boy frowned and a moue of disgust colours his face. "If that does not suffice you are not worth the praise She grants you and your last breath will be of fire."

Merlin rubbed his eyes with both hands before he stood. He and the Dragon had an antagonistic relationship, the dragon far too mysterious and withholding for brash and forward Merlin. Merlin sucked his teeth and shook his head.

He hated riddles.

"Fine. I thank you for your help," Merlin bit out, casting a saddened glance at the motionless boy before turning on his heel to leave.

"Do not pity this boy, Warlock," the Dragon said, halting Merlin's progress. "He died long ago, under the warmth of one who cared."

"You didn't care."

"No need for him to have known that."

Merlin had no more to say and left, melting into the dark of forgotten London streets.


	4. Interlude 1

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own Merlin, dammit. *Sobs*. It belongs to BBC._

_**Notes: **__So the story isn't completely starting yet aha. Just this little interlude and then we are onto the first chapter! Yay. Chapter one Will be posted soon after this. _

_**Genre:**__ Fantasy/Adventure/Romance_

_**Warnings: **__Pre-Slash, Minor character deaths, violence, spoilers (in an obscure way), slow-burn romance __(very slow burn, sorry about that folks)__, possible implied torture. _

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><p><strong>Interlude 1: Chaos<strong>

In realms far beyond human comprehension and imagination, lies a prison wrapped in the claws of an exploding star, forever trapped within walls of black diamond and timelessness. Within such a majestic cage is a self-built throne forged from iron and bone, bound in which by chains and magic is a god.

The god is a monolith. If He were to stand on the earth He watched, His shoulders would brush the uppermost layer of clouds, but it has been eons since He last tasted the air. He sits magnificent as a king upon His hideous throne. His expression is calm and anticipatory. There is a gleam to His eye that suggests a brewing storm. His mouth is twisted in a smile, a grim and dark copy of joy. His hands are fisted in self-righteous anger, barely contained by the thrumming excitement racing through His limbs like the beat of a war drum and rattling His chains with a gentle tremor of power.

His Disappointment had such potential, He muses, with a voice that etched out civilisations. But the Disappointment will fall, graceless and forgotten, in the face of His power welded by the hands of his Siblings.

The gods' temples had all but crumpled into dust, but He can taste the spark of freedom on His tongue. It brings with it vivacity, a thirst that He hasn't felt for centuries whilst bound by His own Siblings all those years ago. But it is fast approaching and His reign that had been cut short by jealousies and pettiness and that sickening noble 'greater good' would rise once more and His people will bow to Him.

Yes, He settles back into his chains with satisfaction, the clanging of his binds ricocheting through eternity, His time was coming.


	5. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own Merlin, dammit. *Sobs*. It belongs to BBC._

_**Notes: **__Now the story can truly begin, thank you for being patient ahah. And thank you for reading in general. Hope you enjoy it. _

_In other news, I do have a twitter and I am going to use it to inform those who are interested on progress of stories/future story ideas/recommendations (as well as those pointless updates I do sometimes on the general crappiness of my life outside of writing) all most likely to be Merthur fics, although a few other fandoms (Sherlock, Naruto, Harry Potter mostly with the occasional Final Fantasy) may make an appearance on the rec list. If any of you would like to follow me, say so in a review or PM and I'll tell you the name to look up and tweet me to tell me who you are aha _

_**Genre:**__ Fantasy/Adventure/Romance_

_**Warnings: **__Pre-Slash, Minor character deaths, violence, spoilers (in an obscure way), slow-burn romance __(very slow burn, sorry about that folks)__, possible implied torture. _

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

He dreams in colours and non-colours. Nothing and everything implodes in his brain. Messages, unintelligible and cryptic haunt his sleep. His eyes flicker in deep REM sleep but when he awakes he will not feel rested. It all crashes and collides in his mind; legend and myth and truth and lies, all battling within him for a voice, for an ear, for belief. He fights them all, limbs barely twitching under the onslaught even as his magic whips and thrashes around him in a roaring cacophony of power and noise. He will awake to a destroyed room, but that is not uncommon and a simple tired wave of his hand will correct it swifter than its ruination.

Beneath the nonsensical images, blaring colours and screaming voices, is his shred of comfort. A motherly croon, the metaphorical brush of a kindly hand to relieve him and soft eyes he cannot refuse, because She saved him and he owes Her everything. He search for Her now, staggering through his dreams – exhaustion tears at him, his magic pulls at him and he wants nothing more than to slip into the bliss of nothingness, but he can feel Her near and so he goes towards Her and the comfort She can provide.

_Merlin. _It is a whisper that glistens with starlight and faith. _My poor boy, will you forgive me?_

Always, he answers deep within his mind, sighing into Her embrace. Always.

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><p>He awakes softly to ravaged sheets and torn pillows. Feathers settle around him like fresh snow. His books are strewn across the floor, spines broken and pages drifting lazily across the floor in the light breeze from the open window. His picture frames are shattered and the glass glitters in the morning sun. His studio flat is small and the magic had not been restricted only to his sleeping area. His sofa and chair is sliced, his coffee table gouged and his TV appears to have imploded. His china is smashed and his few bits of cutlery are warped and bent like a scene from a film. He sits up amongst the carnage and sighs, assuming correctly that only the bathroom has survived his dreams. He rubs a hand along his unshaven chin and yawns. He glances down at the wooden flooring, somehow a little scorched, and gingerly puts his feet down, wary of the glass.<p>

He gestures with his hand and a whirlwind of magic sweeps around the flat, resounding off the walls before spinning itself out into nothingness and the room is as it should be. He stands then, knees a little weak from the remaining exhaustion that is worsened by his sleep rather than bettered and staggers out over to the kitchen. He touches the kettle and smiles a little; the water is already boiled from his little unconscious display.

Grabbing a mug from the cupboard (an obnoxious Christmas themed mug Merlin had fallen in love with a few Christmases ago), Merlin quietly prepares himself his ritual morning tea and thinks over the coming day. A glance out the window says it is barely sunrise, meaning that he has plenty of time to get himself ready for his first day at college; his first day at any educational institution really. Before he received a less than normal education and his mother had seen fit to home school him when he went to live with her after –everything.

He isn't nervous per se; he has a knack with people that his mother calls a gift. He can make friends with practically anyone and offends few, despite his tendency to speak without thinking and lack of any social grace. It is an anticipatory nervousness that troubles him, curling in his stomach like a coiled spring. It is an excited nervousness that makes him more jittery and clumsy than usual. This is opportunity of al lifetime, not just because of his own strange education that, whilst helpful and invaluable to him, gave him no bearing of the real world or any qualifications he could use there, but because he is more than saw that who he looks for is here.

Not all his dreams are as senseless as the one that morning, a few times there has been reason behind the madness, and he has successfully discovered the meaning behind the images. A flash of blond and blue that wasn't unlike Hers and a flash of a large building and a mesh of colours and people. It had taken him a while, travelling first to all the well-known and noted educational institutions before he found this one that had that a similar vibe as that in the dream.

He had enrolled as soon as he could, which had been a mostly selfish decision. His curiosity burned, and he wanted to know what a real school was like, so instead of just sneak in and look through the computers and paperwork, he chose to attend the college like a real student, even if it only lasted a few days before he had to disappear.

He doesn't think he can be judged too harshly for that.

Putting his now empty mug in the sink to be washed up whenever he feels like it, Merlin sets about getting himself ready for his first day, the coil in his stomach flexing and tightening in expectation.

Half an hour later sees Merlin dressed casually in dark skinny-fit jeans (he looks ridiculous in most other jeans, his legs swamped in fabric), a white top and a warm jacket with a black messenger bag thrown over one shoulder.

He glances around his little studio flat once more, checking for anything he may have forgotten, before leaving, closing the door behind him with a snap of the lock. The complex in which Merlin lives is as small as the flats it offers. It takes two steps to take him from his front door to the stairs. It is neutrally painted out here and kept trim and tidy, unlike some of the other apartment complexes Merlin had visited before settling here.

Merlin passes a woman only a few years older than himself, and smiles at her before darting passed her and out into the street. The complex is built just outside the main town centre, and only a fifteen minute walk away from the college. The town is already alive; businessmen and woman in their smart, snappy suits march in uniform towards the train station, just down the street to the left, and the early risers with their dogs stroll lazily as their dogs tug and pull at their leads. The odd jogger paces up and down the street in steady, strong strides that speak of experience and stamina. Shop keepers and their assistants flit and bustle past the windows of their buildings, setting up for the day. The local Starbucks already has its doors thrown open so that a surly looking lad can haul out the tables and chairs.

Merlin watches all this with quiet contentment. Even now, years after getting off of that island, he still basks in the perpetual presence of others. For his early life, Merlin had only ever known his 'siblings' and the man who called himself 'father.' When he first arrived at the village where his mother had lived, as tiny as it was, he had still been amazed at the amount of people. Realistically, Ealdor only housed a couple hundred but to him, a young boy who had only ever known five other people, it had been overwhelming.

Merlin sticks his hands in his pockets as he walks, squinting a bit as the morning sun peeks out from behind the clouds that had not yet blown over from the night. His thoughts drift back to the approaching day. He is eighteen years of age really, but given the rules and regulations, he had had to enrol with the other first years and therefore mostly sixteen year olds, fresh out of school. But Merlin doesn't mind.

He will enjoy it either way.

His smile is boyish, a little childish, but charming in its own way. He looks around himself and catches a few glances his way, most of which are questioning as if there is nothing to smile about on a Monday morning, but there are a couple of appreciative side looks from a few school girls. He smiles back at them and the girls giggle and push and whisper to each other and Merlin shakes his head with a small smile.

Today is going to be _good_.

* * *

><p>The college is made up mainly of three two storey buildings, a large gym and a couple smaller outbuildings that Merlin discovers are workshops for those doing engineering and spare rooms for exams and classes should other rooms be unavailable. There are already a handful of students milling around the place, relaxing in the canteen with breakfast and drinks, a few with their notebooks open or pouring over a textbook. Merlin wanders through, glancing at the food range on offer before buying himself a bottle of water. He catches snatches of conversations that are interesting in all their dullness.<p>

He likes the simplicity of their conversations; the arguments over boys and crowing over girls; discussions of television programmes and music and books; random private jokes that Merlin doesn't understand but set the group of friends off in fits of hysterics; the friendly teasing and loving touches between partners. There are a few conversations that make Merlin annoyed, brows furrowed as one person is slightly too malicious to another as they duck past or bitchy comments about someone who obviously isn't seated with the group but known by all, but then he supposes, that is what makes humans human.

He can't say he hasn't had a few choice words for others and vocalised them.

He slips outside once more, out to the area where the wooden A-frame picnic benches are lined up in preparation for the smokers and days of better weather. He approaches one, cracking the seal on his bottle and sitting before taking a mouthful. Blue eyes take in the world around him with a quiet enjoyment, just watches the passing students idly, with no real thought. He is just going to enjoy this day and get down to work tomorrow. His magic thrums through his veins at the obvious peace of its host.

The peace, however, is soon broken. He hears them before he sees them. Coming from around the corner only a few feet away from him comes obnoxious jeering and laughter. There are crude remarks and a noise of someone distressed and frustrated. Merlin turns in his seat as the loud laughter and mocking words become louder and a group of six come spilling out from around the corner. The boys are the large, fit kind that you would automatically assume where going some sort of Physical Education or worshipped the gym. They clapped each other around the shoulders, tripping each other, using crude language and being a general loud inconvenience. Merlin is about to roll his eyes and turn away, not wanting to give the boys any more attention then they deserved, when he notices that one is swinging a bag up high over his head and the distress frustration is coming from another boy – while the boy is not small, he is obviously not part of the group.

"Stop being arseholes and give me back my bag!"

The other boys only laugh and sneer, mocking him and calling each other out in high, sarcastic voices. Merlin raises an eyebrow. This is the sort of immaturity he would've expected to see if he went to a secondary school. A blond steps forward and Merlin only gets a glimpse of a arrogant smirk before he grabs the bag and throws it to another of his pals.

"What's wrong can't catch?"

Having enough of the needless display, Merlin stand intent to give the blond (obviously the ringleader, considering how the others all seem to look to him for approval) a piece of his mind, the bullied lad intercepts yet another launch of his bag with an impressive leap.

"Fuck you," the boy breathes out in anger, face flushed and eyes glinting, before the boy darts around the largest of the group and away, past where Merlin is half standing and up into the building. Merlin watches his disappearance before twisting back to look at the group of five. The blond had also been watching the retreat and catches Merlin's eyes. He smirks at Merlin, all arrogance and egotism and Merlin rolls his eyes and looks away in disgust, ensuring as he does so that the _sees_ the expression.

What a dick.


End file.
